


caught unawares (in the tenderest of tendrils)

by leeloo6



Series: seasons [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Flushed Feelings, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Quadrant Confusion, Quadrant Vacillation, Smut, lots of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leeloo6/pseuds/leeloo6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t look less lucid than usual, but the earnestness in his eyes is not something that you’re accustomed to and it makes you feel flushed, like you’re looking at something as perverse as his naked soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	caught unawares (in the tenderest of tendrils)

Today is a perfect day; there is no sun to blind your sensitive eyes, the air is cold enough to keep you at your normal level of sobriety and it’s a great time for flying. When you mean ‘flying’, though, you usually think of speed cruising on your lusus, not trusting your life in the hands of your kismesis while he’s floating above the ocean, probably ready to drop you on a sharp cliff if you say something that ticks him off.

`Really, Sol, we could’ve taken my lusus, why do you have to carry me around like some kind a helpless wriggler,’ you complain, even though you don’t really mind practically being wrapped around him. Not at all. The amount of effective displeasure that you feel right now is dangerously close to sea level, which is something that he definitely doesn’t need to know.

Getting him to agree to come to your place to fix your computer took a perigee of hard work over Trollian, but you’re lucky you have such fine persuasion skills. You can hardly be the one establishing conditions now, though, so there is nothing else to do but comply.

`Shut up, bitch, I know you love it,’ he says distractedly and to hell with that. You’re about to snap back a witty retort when you notice that there is nothing inviting about his tone, like he’s talking to empty air. He’s been a bit out of it all perigee, come to think about it- you keep silent and cuddle closer to him against your will.

He’s never been in your hive before. You wouldn’t admit it, but that makes you a little nervous, even though you hate him and you couldn’t give less of a damn on what he’ll think about it, especially since his own hive looks like it’s freshly recovered from a hurricane while yours is practically flawless.

`It’s so fucking cold in here,’ he grunts as you lead him to your respiteblock, up the wooden stairs and through the damp hallway. To his credit, he’s at least wearing a long-sleeved shirt.

`Wow, that’s really unexpected for a seadweller’s hive, excellent powers a deduction,’ you reply bitterly. He dares to snicker at the sea-themed decorations, wiping the (artistically, mind you) gathered dust off the frames.

`Nice place,’ he observes, voice dripping with irony. You feel like punching him.

`I could leave this ship unattended for a dozen solar sweeps and it’d still look better than your pathetic excuse of a hive,’ you snap.

`Yeah, yeah,’ he says absently and you are, once again, stricken by his refusal to a proper comeback. `Just take me to your husktop so I can get this over with and be spared of your awful company before I blow this place up just so I won’t have to hear your voice anymore.’

Oh. That kind of hurt. Except that it shouldn’t, because you probably trade insults more often than sloppy makeouts. (okay, that might be an overexageration; as often as sloppy makeouts, because those sure do happen a lot) But he’s not competitive now, is the thing, he doesn’t look like he wants to fight you or challenge you. He sounds like he really means it, in the most dejected way possible.

Okay, so your current problem is being able to sit in the same room with a depressed Sollux for more than a few minutes without, 1) punching him and therefore interfering with the purpose of this visit and 2), starting to pity him.

With a bit of effort, you should do just fine.

You shuffle around your respiteblock as he’s doing his thing, but you can’t quite focus on reading or scheming while someone else is around. You guess you’ve always had some self-awareness issues. It’s to your luck that trolls always live alone.

After an hour, he’s still not done.

`That bad?’ you ask. Experience tells you not to expect an answer, since he barely cares about anything else when he’s in front of a husktop, but to your surprise, he doesn’t ignore you this time.

`You’ve completely screwed up your system,’ he replies on monotone. `But instead of reinstalling it, I’m cleaning it piece by piece. It’ll take a while, so brace yourself and try not to throw a tantrum.’

`Uh, okay,’ you reply, a bit dumbfounded. `But Sol, why’d you do that when you can just reinstall it?’

`’Cause I’m a masochistic fuck is why. I’m obviously getting off by spending ridiculous amounts of time fixing your pathetic mistakes, ’ he sighs. `It’s so you won’t lose data and have to reinstall everything again, you idiot.’

`Oh,’ you reply intelligently. The warm feeling pooling in your chest kind of took you by surprise. `Okay then. I can… go do some other shit while you’re done.’

`Amazing,’ he deadpans.

You feed your lusus and tidy some books and when you’re done, he’s still there, muttering profanities under his breath.

`Is everything okay?’ you ask cautiously.

`Yeah, everything’s just peachy,’ he spits out and god, you cannot even start to describe how that word sounded on his lips. His lisp is more obvious when he’s angry and he seems to be past apathetic now, eyebrows furrowed and lips curled in a vicious snarl.

You find yourself staring at his face in awe like a stupid wriggler; he looks beautiful when he’s angry.

`I’m just sayin’, I must’ve done something alright to make this a problem to you,’ you say, knowing in the second in which you opened your mouth that this is not the best idea, none of the best ideas, but failing to resist the urge to piss him off further.

`I’m just going to repeat it this once: you either get lost or you’re left to face this shitstorm on your own, fishprince,’ he hisses under his breath, low and threatening. There’s something cracked in there, though, something that makes him sound less dangerous than usual and that’s why you go straddle your chair and sit behind him, legs on each side of his wiry frame.

`What the fuck, ED,’ he groans. You ignore him, leaning in and leaving a trace of small bites on the nape of his neck instead, flicking your tongue over the marks to taste him. He shuts up, leaning into you in the most delightful way, breathing just a bit heavier. You can feel some tension slipping out of his body, melting away in your touch. This happens everytime, he’s amazingly responsive there; touching the back of his neck is like switching him off or changing his frequency. You really have to make more use of it as a tactical advantage.

`Do you want me to finish this or not,’ he says, voice still grudging, but softer than before.

`You could finish me instead,’ you say, aiming for careless but ending up with a slight tremble in your voice nevertheless. He turns around then, straddling your lap and tugging at your hair, pulling your head back with calculated roughness and looking you in the eye. His expression is a strange kind of confused, like he’s looking right through you, but still fierce as if he wants to take you apart. It’s really hot and just a bit unsettling.

Then you notice the yellow marks on his wrists where the sleeves of his shirt have pulled up in the slightest and you freeze.

`Sol, what’s up with those,’ you ask, your voice turning into a threatening snarl before you can even control yourself. He tries to pull his sleeves back down, but you grab his hand and reveal more skin, more efficient cuts blossoming yellow on grey, colouring him pretty and deranged and you feel like killing something because this is terribly, terribly wrong.

`It’s none of your fucking business,’ he snaps, trying to pull off you but you hold him in place, your teeth bared, your whole body stiff, ready to attack. You feel the rush of his powers before he can even direct them at you so you punch him in the face, rolling him over until you both end up tumbling on the floor in a mess of limbs and blood. The energy flowing through you is a furious river, swollen and vicious, and it fuels you enough to rise up to his psionics, to fight him like you’re as powerful as he is. After a few minutes you manage to straddle him and by the looks of it, you’ve caused enough damage to make him lose control of his powers for the time being. Huh, go figure.

`What part of `I’m the only one allowed to hurt you’ did you not understand, you thick-panned moron,’ you hiss, catching his eyes beneath his coloured lenses. `Not anyone else. Not you. _No one_.’

He goes slack beneath you and for a moment, he stops breathing.

`Are you fucking kidding me,’ he says. There is genuine surprise in his voice, but he also sounds like he’s mocking you (when doesn’t he?), and you feel like biting his face off. When can you possibly hold a serious conversation with this asshole?

`Is this the sound a me jokin, ‘cause if it is then someone’s been really late in lettin me know about it,’ you snarl.

`I just didn’t think you’d get that mad. It’s kind of hot,’ he says, smirking lazily at you and wow, is he trying to dodge the topic really bad or is he just messing with you? Either way, his attempt is futile. You totally do not want to jump him right now.

`This is not the goddamn point a it, I swear to god-`

The rest of your sentence is a ruined attempt of speaking into his open mouth. He’s pulled you down by the front of your shirt, kissing you slow and deep and just a bit desperate. You snap your eyes open and for a second you panic, because this is definitely not the Sol you know, but the metallic taste of his blood from where you split his lip and the almost-tenderness of his kiss, rich and dangerous, keep you entangled enough to answer back. You melt into him, burying your fingers in his hair, pulling softly and he sighs into your mouth, sending liquid pleasure crawling down your spine.

He’s been tender before; he loves using it against you, baiting you with slow kisses and feather touches, killing you with diluted passion until you’re a chord for his mercy and only after he’s brought you down to the verge of tears with how much you adore him does he turn rough again, lewd and merciless and so, so good. But he seems honest now, is what scares you, it’s like he’s genuinely starving for your affection and you keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it never happens. He’s pulled up your shirt, running his claws up your back barely enough to sting and he keeps kissing you like he wants to swallow you whole.

You are just a tiny bit terrified.

You don’t care that he might be flipping on you as much as you care about the reasons behind it. His apathy, the marks on his wrists, the way he’s given up the fight before you were even properly started. Not using his powers against you was probably a choice and not a consequence of your skills. You knew about his mood swings, but you didn’t think they were bad enough to make him hurt himself. He is soft and warm and pleasant against you, but you’ll take him rough anytime if it means getting him back to normal again.

`Sol,’ you whisper, taking his glasses off and looking him in the eye. To your relief, he doesn’t look less lucid than usual, though the earnestness in his eyes is not something that you’re accustomed to and it makes you feel flushed, like you’re looking at something as perverse as his naked soul. `Tell me what you want.’

`Just… have me,’ he says lazily, drawling the v like you sometimes do. It makes something warm flutter in your chest and something from an entirely different region of your body wake up to life.

`Okay. Okay, I can do that,’ you say, trying to sound confident. You are not confident. Confident is one of the last things that you are right now. You are ridiculously good at a wide range of things, but having Sollux is not one of them, mostly because you’ve always thought that _he_ has _you_ more than the other way around.

`C’mon,’ he says, probably noticing your hesitation, and kisses you- this time a bit rougher, with more intent, tearing at your composure enough to make you stop thinking.

When you take his shirt off you’re almost afraid that you’ll find more cuts, you don’t think you could stand seeing any more without tearing into him, but all you find are bruises from today’s fight and older ones blooming pale on his skin. He shivers on the cold stone floor and you lay him down on your cape- it might not be much, but it’s warmer than nothing. You adorn the damaged tissue with small bites, kissing them all better afterwards- they’re the only parts of him that completely belong to you, landmarks that your presence has left on his topography, proof that he’s alive and so very yours. His kisses lose their precision as your touch intensifies and by the time you slip a hand in his jeans you’re both rutting mindlessly against each other, dizzy and drunk with want.

You unzip his jeans and take him in your mouth, and even though you’re only holding his hands to stop him from pushing your head down further, it feels like the most intimate thing you’ve ever done. He’s muttering between ragged breaths, words that are tender and flushed and that you don’t want to hear; you focus on the mere sound of his voice instead, low and heavy and broken for you. You mean to tease, but the way he’s writhing under you makes it impossible to keep a slow pace and you give in, sucking around him and taking as much as you can. He likes to fuck your mouth, is the thing, but he’s not the one leading this show, so you scowl at him when he bucks his hips up and hold his gaze as you feel him in your throat, letting his bulge slip out of your mouth with a wet sound.

`Oh god, Eridan,’ he breathes and you feel giddy all over for being able to get these kinds of reactions out of him; your name in his mouth is doing stupid things to you right now and, encouraged, you keep looking in his eyes while you’re sucking him, feeling like this is the most debauched thing you’ve ever done, the kind that he usually does to you and makes you fall to pieces. It feels… right, more than you ever thought it would. He’s close to falling apart himself, he’s looking at you with hazy eyes and in the next moment he’s gone, body trembling with the rush of it, one hand over his mouth to muffle his voice while the other is still holding yours. He’s dug his nails in your palm deep enough to draw blood- part of you is melting with this intimacy more than with anything else. You feel like swallowing, today more than any other time; you lick him clean and he’s come to his senses enough by the time you’re done, pulling you up to bury your face in his neck and wrapping his hand around your bulge.

You moan, desperate for contact, but you pull his hand away. He looks at you, raising an eyebrow.

`I can wait for the next round. If you feel like you have it in you, that is,’ you say, trying to sound challenging. Your voice might have cracked. You refuse to take responsibility for it.

`Bitch please,’ he smirks lazily, but he still looks a bit confused, like he doesn’t understand why you’d want to do that. God, does he have trouble catching on sometimes.

He doesn’t say anything else, though, and you bury your face in his neck as you feel his breathing steady. It’s… peaceful. You can’t say the same about yourself, since you’re really turned on and he’s still beneath you, warm and spent and so inviting, but you try not to think about it. Today is about him and even though you have no idea how to fix him, nor do you think you ever could, you can at least give him this. You spend a few minutes in silence, not moving from atop of him, just feeling all the spots where your body ends and his begins. He probably needs the heat, anyway.

You’re still holding hands and at some point it becomes more distracting than it should, because it’s a thing that should definitely not be happening. It feels warm- partly from the blood, you guess- and it makes you feel treasured in a way that has never happened before. You need to remind yourself that he doesn’t actually feel that way about you, not when he’s in his right senses, at least.

`Where you going,’ he rasps when you lift off him, letting go of his hand.

`Ablution block,’ you answer. `Won’t be long.’

`I won’t need long,’ he smiles at you, baring his teeth and oh, god, you need to get away from him right now before you defeat your own purpose and spill all over yourself.

When you come back, well- you hadn’t taken _not needing long_ that literal.

He’s got one hand- the same hand you were holding some time before- between his legs, moving his fingers along his entrance and touching his bulge, which is already starting to unsheathe again. Fortunately, you’ve regained enough control on yourself by now as to not come on the spot.

`So rude, starting without me,` you murmur, straddling him again.

`You’re the one who made me wait,’ he replies, giving you a crooked smile and pulling you down into a kiss- again sober and calculated, like he’s in control. You slip a hand between his legs, joining his own, rubbing against his nook and coaxing his bulge out and he answers by bucking up into you, making these delicious sounds that go straight to the pit of your stomach.

You’re hungry for him, always was; you take his hand and slip your joined fingers inside his nook, keeping a casual rhythm, prodding at his inner walls. He’s trying to go deeper, clinging to you and licking at your neck gills in a manner that’s distracting as hell. He opens his legs further and you slip two more fingers in, making him keen into your ear and lift his hips to give you both a better angle, push into him deeper, harder. You’re losing your head with how much he wants this, how much you want him to.

`You’re gorgeous like this,’ he murmurs in a hoarse voice, pulling you down by your hair to kiss you, sloppy and intense, before you have a chance to be surprised.

`Yeah?’ you answer, the glimmer in his eyes making you do something you’d never thought you would- you pull your joined fingers out of him and lick them clean, dragging your tongue across each of them while looking him in the eye. He looks like someone’s just punched him.

`ED, if you don’t get inside me any time close to right now I swear I’ll do something stupid like making you come just from finger-fucking your mouth,’ he breathes and yeah, okay, the way you shudder involuntarily makes you think that you wouldn’t mind that too much. You skip the comeback line and kiss his slashed wrists instead, soft, chaste brushes of your lips that contrast so much with your previous display that he’s left dumbfounded for the second time in the past five minutes and that feels amazing, being able to surprise him like that.

You give in and slip into him, spreading his own taste on his tongue while you kiss him stupid, feeling his voice echo in your throat, his walls stretching to take all of you in. It feels amazing. He’s tight and really wet even if this is his second go; you bury yourself inside him and only need a few hard thrusts before pleasure strikes you, dizzying and unmerciful. You shudder and collapse on him, feeling his walls tighten around you as you fill him and he follows you quietly, burying his face in your shoulder, spilling over both of you.

You lie like this together, with you sprawled over him and tracing absent circles on his arms, for more time than you should. He keeps his eyes closed, head rolled back, hands resting on your back; he smells like sweat and sex, poignant and visceral, making you want to drink him in just to let the feeling linger. He feels like quiet static underneath you, a storm that you are here to shelter. He might be thinking of nothing right now, he might not care. But you’d like to indulge the feeling that he does, if only for a bit longer.

`So, how was it,’ you ask in his hair.

`Hot,’ he answers lazily. `You’re definitely a natural.`

There are times when you can’t tell if he means what he’s saying or he’s just being sarcastic. This is one of those times. For your own good, you settle for the second option and huff in disbelief.

He turns your face to him and kisses you.

You forget how to breathe.

`Sol,’ you start, pulling away.

`C’mon, just a little while more,’ he pleads- he actually _pleads_ , there’s that sweetness in his voice that he slips in when he’s trying to persuade you, but it’s just a faint echo of what it usually is. He mostly sounds sincere. You melt.

You’re going to regret this as hell, later when you’ll be alone again and you’ll only see him once a perigee, and then just to jab at each other and fight and have angry sex. Really good, mind-blowing sex, but still only that. You’re not sure if you can keep doing it once he’s given you a taste of this and you hate thinking about it; what the two of you already have going on is good enough, more than good, it’s amazing.

You find yourself not giving a fuck on previously mentioned issues and kiss him, deep and slow and languorous, like you’re in love with him. Because you are.

When you part, he looks away like he’s trying to deny it.

`Come on, you have to be gettin’ dressed or you’ll freeze in here,’ you say, lifting off him and trying to act as the reasonable one here. It’s a strange position to be in. `You know what, nevermind,’ you continue, having gained a better perspective on his body. Your slurry is still flowing from between his legs, staining your cape a truer violet. It’s difficult looking away. `Ablution trap first.’

`Only if you join me,’ he challenges. Your brows furrow, but the smile curling at the corner of his lips tells you that his invitation is harmless. Safely away from red territory. You hope to God it is.

You don’t talk at all as the water rushes over you, waking you up. Despite his intentions you have to take turns, colder water for you and steaming hot for him, but the intimacy of it is still there, hanging between the two of you like thick, honeyed air. It’s comfortable. It shouldn’t be, so it stops being when you start thinking about it. You watch each other shower; he looks sated and relaxed as he looks at you from behind half-dropped eyelids. You think you mostly look scared.

When you get back to your respiteblock, he takes his seat in front of your husktop without another word and picks up where he’d left before you acted as the distracting force. You blink.

`There’s no way I’m lettin’ you brush this off as if it was nothing, Sol,’ you scowl. When he doesn’t answer, you turn his seat to face you. His expression is blank, unreadable.

`What are you talking about,’ he deadpans.

`You know very well what I’m talkin’ about! Are you just goin’ to flip on me everytime one of your mood swings settles in and then leave me to bear with it, is this how it’s gonna be?’ You can’t stop your voice from raising. You can’t suppress the slight tremble in it.

`I haven’t flipped on you, nookwit,’ he says, still looking detached, like he’s having a conversation with a stranger. You feel your heart sink.

`Yeah, so what the hell was _that_ all about, then,’ you murmur. Have you been imagining the whole thing? You look back, desperate for your memory to tell you that no, he hasn’t been gentle with you, he hasn’t refused to use his powers, he hasn’t asked you to take the lead. But all you can think of is the way he looked at you all through it. Like, for that short period of time, you were everything he ever needed.

`Am I really the one who has to give you lessons on this,’ he huffs. `Do you ever complain that we’re flipping when you come to me in pieces, _please Sol, fix me_ , and I _fucking always_ do-‘

`That’s different!` you protest.

`How is it different? Because I’m rough with you? It’s what you _need_ , you idiot.` He’s alive now, his voice angry, his face an animated portrait of annoyance and scorn. `If I wanted to hurt you then, you know what I’d do? I’d be gentle. It would fucking _kill_ you.’

You freeze.

`So… this is what _you_ need,’ you say in a small voice.

`Wow, he finally got it,’ he rolls his eyes, but his voice isn’t as sure as usual. In his eyes, he’s probably admitting this big weakness right now. He’s trying to mask it, but he’s ashamed.

This does nothing to make you feel better, though.

`But you’re an idiot if you think that what we’re doing here, this… mutual understanding a sorts, doesn’t cross into red territory,’ you scowl at him. God, you fucking hate it that you can’t keep your voice steady.

`I don’t care what fucking territory it crosses,’ he answers. `It’s just quadrants, they don’t mean anything yet. And anyway, when we’ll both be old enough for the drones to come-‘

`Yeah? What then, Sol?’ you ask, not even bothering to hide the tremble in your voice anymore. Your fists are clenched at your sides and you want to punch something so bad. You want to punch him and kiss him and make him die with how much he wants you. Because he does, he fucking does.

`We’ll have figured this out by then,’ he says carefully. You exhale, tension melting out of your muscles at his mere words. For a second, you can’t even believe yourself. You’re afraid, much too afraid- that he’ll leave you, that you’ll be alone again. You never want to be alone again. You must’ve been obvious, because he looks at you with amusement in his eyes.

`God, ED, you’re such an idiot,’ he smiles. There is fondness in his voice and the tense atmosphere between you dissipates in seconds. `C’mere.’

You straddle him on your chair and he pulls your chin up to kiss you, but you turn your head from him. You’re looking down at his arm, pulling up his sleeve and following the yellow marks starting on his wrist and keep going on most of his forearm. This time, he doesn’t do anything to stop you.

`What’d you use,’ you murmur.

`Knife. Electricity.’

`Oh, god.’ You close your eyes and rest your forehead against his. ` _You’re_ such a idiot, I can’t fuckin’ believe you.’ He doesn’t say anything. `Why’d you do it?’

`Pain stimulates endorphin secretion,’ he answers absently. `Makes me feel better.’

`Shut up. That’s not what I asked.’

`What _did_ you ask, then,’ he retorts bitterly. `I was too busy over the sound of you flipping pale on me to hear you well.’

You dismiss his accusation; he just said he doesn’t care about quadrants. `I… you know you can always come FLARP with me, get some a the frustration out. You don’t need to do this.`

`Yeah, like it’s any better putting your life in danger for some stupid game,’ he huffs. `Besides, I don’t trust anyone.’

`You don’t trust me?’ you pout, trying to lighten the atmosphere, but the truth beneath that question is still there.

`I barely trust you to stay alive until the end of the day,’ he smirks and leans in to kiss you. You know it’s a lie; you’re damn good at fighting and he’s well aware of that. But in a strange way, it’s also the truth. You’ve cut out outer dangers by being one of the best there is, but there’s no one who can protect you from yourself. He knows that, too. He knows to much about you; that’s why you can never let him go.

`You are not doing this ever again,’ you say, serious.

`Since when are you the boss of me, ED,’ he tries, but this is not a game anymore.

`I mean it. Just… come to me, okay? Or find a moirail. Not that it’d be easy, considering your level a unpleasantness-`

`Oh, like _you’re_ the one to talk, I don’t know how FF even puts up with you-`

`Shut up. Come to me. Just… stop being stupid, okay?’

`Except stupid for you,’ he says, grinning. `Oh, come on, you knew it,’ he adds when he sees your surprised expression; you think your heart just sank, even though yes, of course you knew it. You just hadn’t expected him to say it.

It warms you up and tears you apart at the same time, because you don’t know how much this will last, but he pulls your chin up for a short kiss and even if it’s just for a little while, everything falls into place. `I’ll try not to do it anymore,’ he murmurs. `Now get lost so I can be done with this before the next sweep.`

He nudges you off of him; you don’t get lost. You take your place at his back, reveling in the warmth of him and not thinking of anything else, just stroking his skin and tracing the small bruises on his neck with feather touches.

`Love you too, Sol,’ you say in his hair, hushed enough not to be heard.

You hope he's heard you anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe at some point I'll get to writing something that is not erisol porn?? and also i hope the fluff wasn't too self-indulgent ._.


End file.
